Page 88 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘I like it,’ she said. ‘Carry on.’

He held her tight and sang the words – a song for dancing the Java with your love, the one you could not imagine life without.

By midnight the crowd had dispersed, one by one sluggishly walking home to their beds, children carried asleep on their fathers’ shoulders, women giggling, giddy from too much wine and fun.

The troupe were also tired as they trudged back to the farm, Lucien leading the way with Coquette, who danced around her master’s heels, not yet worn out from the evening.

Michel had to stay behind – the horses had, as horses do, left hefty, steaming deposits around the square, and he had been tasked by Werner to clear it before he could rest his head.

He finished shovelling the square within an hour, stuffing the dung into a wheelbarrow given to him by the priest, who had visited the festivities for a cursory glance and a glass of Lucien’s wine.

As Michel wheeled the squeaking barrow down the lane towards the farm, he whistled ‘La Java Bleue’ and thought of Odette in her café in Paris. He remembered the words, tested them, then sang them out into the night.

As he finished the final line, he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped the wheelbarrow and listened. Then he looked behind him, but the dark was absolute. Nothing. He started walking again, the squeaking of the wheel too loud in the night.

Still, he walked slowly, counting his steps, realising that an echo was indeed behind him. He stopped once more. Before he could turn, a heavy force hit the back of his head with a thump. The last thing Michel heard was the twit-twoo of an owl as he fell unconscious onto the dirt track.

Michel awoke to a bright light above him.

‘You’re awake!’ Frieda’s voice, disembodied, floated around him. He closed his eyes against the glare.

‘Where am I?’ Michel’s voice was scratchy.

‘In Lucien’s house.’

‘Frieda?’

‘Yes?’

‘What happened?’

‘Someone attacked you.’

‘My head hurts.’

‘It will. You were hit.’

‘On my head?’

‘Yes. You were hit on your head.’

‘Ask him his name.’ A voice, worried – Giordano.

‘He knows his name, don’t you, Michel?’ A question. A new voice. Jean.

‘Well, he does now, you foolish man! You are telling him his name!’

‘Hush! Both of you. Let him rest. See? He is falling asleep.’

Michel opened his eyes. He remembered the light; now there was none. He was rocking slightly in his bed, side to side, side to side.

‘Frieda?’

‘It’s me.’ Giordano’s small, round face appeared over him. ‘Do you want to sit up?’

‘Who is rocking me?’

‘No one. You are in our caravan.’